


Start of a Perfect Storm

by CelticArche



Series: An Mutual Arrangement, Unwillingly Made, Willingly Kept [2]
Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Armstrong is into Blore, Besides lots of research, Detective Sergeant Blore, Doctor Armstrong, Still don't know what I'm doing, inquiry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:44:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6734719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticArche/pseuds/CelticArche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Blore and Armstrong meet in my modern AU. Armstrong is being investigated because of a patient's death. Blore is the DS who lands the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start of a Perfect Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Armstrong makes Blore uncomfortable. Blore makes Armstrong horny. 
> 
> Beta'd by cephalopod_groupie.

Armstrong is outside, smoking, when Blore enters his life. (Doctors know smoking is bad, but glance at any outside smoking area near a hospital or clinic and most of the smokers will be doctors and nurses. It’s something of a paradox, he’s aware, but that doesn’t stop him any more than any of his colleagues.) Blore steps up to him, wearing a suit. His hair is carefully combed, his face is set in a very serious look.

“Doctor Armstrong? I’m Detective Sergeant William Blore, Metropolitan Police. Do you have a few minutes?” His voice is gruff, soft, and the London accent is just noticeable.

Armstrong exhales the smoke in his lungs, and checks his watch. He’s still technically on his lunch break. He disposes of his cigarette.

“Certainly. We can talk in my office.”

He opens the door to the practise, stepping inside without waiting to see if Blore follows. His dress shoes make no sound on the wooden floor as he crosses the empty waiting room. (The practise ‘closes’ from 12:00 to 13:00 for lunch. The receptionists have gone out, so it’s just himself, nurses, and the other doctors.)

Blore notes the furnishings and paintings hanging on the walls. He looks around as he follows Armstrong down the hall to an office with a large, old fashioned desk and chairs that remind him of the fancy offices he sees in movies.

Armstrong closes the door, then moves behind the desk. He unbuttons his suit jack before he sits, carefully moving any patient files so that they can’t be read, for confidentiality reasons. He motions for Blore to sit in one of the chairs opposite of the desk.

Blore sits and takes a notebook from a pocket inside his suit jacket, along with a pen. Armstrong notes that he crosses his legs. Blore clears his throat as he opens his notebook.

“Yes, I’m here about the death by overdose of one of your patients - “

Armstrong tunes him out here, sitting back in his seat and watching. Blore had a high forehead, his eyes are large and brown. The high cheek bones give his face a sharp structure, the nose is long, but not in the typical British preference of aristocratic style. The mouth, currently moving, is thin lipped and creates a froggish look, as if it was an afterthought in construction. The ears stick out, obviously so, from the short, neatly trimmed black hair. The neck is pleasingly long, and Armstrong’s eyes linger where it disappears into the shirt.

The suit is ill fitting in a way that speaks of being purchased off the rack. The jacket sleeves are a bit too long, and it shows obvious signs of having been worn for some years. Looking the suit over draws his attention to Blore’s hands. The detective sargent has long fingers, and soft looking hands. 

“Doctor Armstrong?”

Armstrong hasn’t even been remotely paying attention. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk about that. Doctor-patient privilege, you understand.”

Blore shifts in his seat. Armstrong isn’t looking at his eyes, and Blore glances down to see if he’s got something on his tie. “Your patient is dead, Doctor Armstrong.”

“Death does not negate the privilege, Detective Sergeant. I’m sure you can understand.” 

“Doctor, this is a very serious matter. Your cooperation is expected.” Blore licks his lips and shifts in his chair. 

Armstrong watches the tongue, and raises an eyebrow. “I understand. However I can’t go about revealing secrets. That would make me a very poor doctor, Detective. And I worked very hard to gain my reputation.”

“I would think, doctor, that you would want this case resolved quickly. Because the death of a patient would also reflect poorly on your reputation.” Blore is becoming agitated, and the way Doctor Armstrong is looking at him is making him uncomfortable.

“I have a duty to maintain the privacy of my patient, even after death. My patients have families, and I am bound by my duty to think of them before revealing information.” Armstrong is calm, he knows he’s in charge of the situation. Blore is becoming flustered and agitated.

“You are also required to reveal information when there is an inquiry. This is an inquiry.”

“I understand. Unfortunately, if you want information on my patient, you will have to return with a search warrant from a magistrate.”

Blore closes his notebook with a snap, and tucks it and the pen away. “You’re lack of cooperation is noted, doctor.” He stands up.

Armstrong stands as well. “Allow me to see you out, Detective.”

Armstrong follows Blore out to the door, opening it for him. “Good day, Detective Blore.” He closes the door behind the officer, subtly adjusted his trousers, and returns to his office with a slight smile on his face.


End file.
